This last month of my life has been, simply put, emotionally draining. Is it because women do too much? Is it because we feel too much? Is it because our multi-tasking should qualify as a psychiatric disorder?

Wouldn’t you love to visit your Family Doc and have him say, “You’re trying to achieve what this month? Well my dear, that’s just INSANE. No one could do all of THAT. That list is ridiculously improbable. Fold up shop. Quit now. Go home. And take this prescription with you. You’ll be of ONE mind by morning: not making long lists while you sip your coffee while shi’ing your hair while changing a diaper. YOU’LL BE YOUR HUSBAND.”

Most of the brain drain surrounds the far too analyzed “leaving of the job”. You’re thinking, “Jeez Lorge, would you leave already?” But as the gal who has gone in day after day, packed up a decade of work, completed an endless check off list, all the while considering alternative work proposals filtering in and giving me much excitement about how ballsy I’ve been to shape my own future…I find myself coming home just exhausted. Every day someone asks, “Are you getting excited?” No. Sorry. I don’t mean to sound flippant about this opportunity, but GASP! I really like my job. I like my employer. I like my colleagues. I love the coffee. I’m going to miss my work. Oh yeah, and there is that little part of me that is scared to death.

I leave without regret, knowing what I must do next is far more important. Knowing it will grow around me, into me, shape me, challenge me, and make me into something better than I am now. I have no doubts about leaving the career. But this entire experience has thus far, been surreal. Almost like I’m walking through a dream that one has the moment they drift off to sleep. Those bizarrely sweet dreams that seem almost real, but only exist in your subconscious. The dreams that could go either way, even though I know the outcome. On Thursday, May 29th, I will hand over my ID, my laptop, and 500 other items on the HR list, and walk away. And somehow, because I’m terribly lucky, I’m supposed to be very cool about it all. For those who know me, I’m rarely that smooth. I tend to taste life on all levels; the bitter and the sweet, all at once.

This week, after doors were shutting and windows were opening, and my mind was spinning, I took off my slingbacks, and looked exhaustedly at the perfectly hung line of gray, brown, and black dress pants. And exactly what am I to do with a wardrobe entirely made up of dry clean only? As I slid my heels into their cubbie, there was my answer.

Sara had placed her favorite “fwip frops” and that stupid cereal box car she and Kelly fight over, right in the middle of my shoe organizer. Talk about a metaphor for my life. Move over suede wedges, Sara and Kelly are here to stay. I sat down on the floor of the closet and let the tears fall. Not out of sadness. Not out of joy. I cried in a way that only every Mother in America can understand. We cry almost out of laughter at ourselves. Because no matter how difficult we try to make it, it’s actually quite simple: I have my girls, and their shoes are going to need to room too. It’s easy enough to move my beloved french cuff shirts into the spare room where I go so rarely, I sometimes forget it’s there. Are you following this less than literal voice? Because Greg is wondering at this very second why I’ve dedicated yet another post to shoes. So for the next week, when people ask me how I came to this decision, rather than the endless pro/con list, I’ll just say,

“I had nothing left to wear.”